New Ways of Surviving
while in the midst of horror we fed on beauty—and that, my love, is what sustained us.
—from “Transit” by Rita Dove
IT IS hard to pinpoint time. The nadir of the pandemic seems to keep descending lower and lower with new outbreaks and mutated strains of the coronavirus across the globe. I’m trying to trace the beginning. Maybe it starts with March for me. I remember barely being able to move off the couch in the spring of last year. My classes were being switched to Zoom. My court date for my divorce was being pushed back, also due to COVID-19. Back then none of us knew how long this pandemic would last or what it meant for our jobs, friendships, or families. I felt ornery from the chatter on social media. I saw a post that referenced Shakespeare writing King Lear during the bubonic plague—the idea that the pandemic was a dark gift to get your great, masterful projects done. I, however, was exhausted and needed the respite.
My lecture and reading dates were being canceled or postponed till a fuzzy, future fall. E-mails were full of question marks. I lamented the money lost, but with each event disappearing from my calendar, I was relieved. I felt an unfamiliar loosening in my chest, a sense of ease. I didn’t want to write. I didn’t want to read. I didn’t want to produce anything. I was mainlining the news, scrolling social media like a slot-machine junkie. I
